


Moving In or Moving On

by desert_neon (sproutgirl)



Series: The "Moving" Series [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Has Issues, Demisexual Clint, Demisexuality, Getting Together, Happy Tower Time AU, Insecure Clint, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, It's Subtle, It's more insecurity than homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, On Clint's Part, Past Abuse, Pining, but that's only revealed in the remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sproutgirl/pseuds/desert_neon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil has been invited to move into Stark Tower, and to take a position as the Avengers' liaison to SHIELD.  He wants the job, but it comes with a very big personal downside.  He'll have to confess his feelings to Clint, a man they both believe to be straight.  Unrequited love always strains a friendship, and theirs is no exception.  Clint's behavior certainly isn't helping the situation, and Phil may very well have to call an end to everything they've ever had together, breaking his heart in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving In or Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** There is mention of Clint's childhood neglect and abuse. Nothing specific, but the implication is that his past has affected his relationship capabilities in the present. Please be aware of this in regards to your own well-being. If you'd like me to elaborate, please feel free to comment or contact me. My LJ and my Tumblr accounts are listed on my profile page.
> 
> This takes place some time in the nebulous future, after Agents of SHIELD ends.
> 
> Also, I have rated it Mature, as I don't feel the sex is too explicit. If anyone feels differently, or thinks I should err on the side of caution, please feel free to speak up!
> 
>  
> 
> **Now with amazing cover art by the amazing and wonderful insidiousink! (Not at all spoilery, please to click in the End Notes, everyone!)**

Phil looked around the conference room, carefully taking in everyone’s expressions. Captain Rogers seemed genuine, and Stark was grinning madly, mighty pleased with himself. Fury was looking directly at him, awaiting his decision, but Phil knew him well enough to know that he expected Phil to accept. Thor and Dr. Banner both had warm smiles on their faces, welcoming. Natasha was the only one looking at him like she knew he might turn them down, and why. But she kicked one side of her mouth up in an understanding smile when their eyes met, and he knew she was on board with the plan too. Clint was already looking at him when Phil glanced in his direction, and the small smile he had set to his lips was easy, uncomplicated and friendly.

It made Phil’s chest tighten in regret.

“I’ll need to think about it,” he said, and he saw a few frowns of confusion, a couple flashes of hurt covered smoothly in the next second. He was sorry to disappoint them. He didn’t want to have to think about it; he truly did want to say yes. But there were extenuating circumstances very few of them knew about.

“Coulson,” Fury began, but Phil rounded on him. He did not want to be persuaded, he did not want to be ordered. He wanted time to think, to come to his own decision, and he needed Clint to know exactly what he was getting into. He was certain the director knew why he was hesitating, even if they’d never discussed it, and in this — as in so many things — Fury owed him.

“A few days, Director,” he demanded. “I’ll let you know when I’ve made my decision.”

Fury nodded, said, “See that you do,” and strode out of the room.

Phil flicked his gaze around the table again, debated saying something more, especially at the look in Stark’s eyes, but decided not to. He moved to the open door himself, pausing just long enough to command, “Barton, my office in an hour.”

“Yes, sir,” came the automatic reply.

Phil gave a sharp nod and left, voices leaking out into the hall after him.

“Ooh, Hawkeye has to go to the principal’s office.”

“Shut up, Stark.”

“Did he seem . . . off to anybody else?”

“Nah, Cap, that’s just Coulson. You get used to it.”

“What Clint means, Steve, is that Coulson is a very private person, and we’ve just asked him to not only take over the liaison position, but to essentially move in with the team as well. That’s a whole lot of, well, us. If he needs time to decide what he wants to do, then we’ll respect that.”

Phil could not even begin to count the number of times he’d been grateful that Natasha Romanoff was in his life.

He distantly heard the captain’s swift reply of, “Of course,” and then he was turning a corner, making his way to his new office. He missed his old space, the office he’d had pre-Loki, pre-Bus. There wasn’t much to differentiate between the two; all the furniture had come from base supply, including both the couches. The old one had been much more comfortable, however, though Phil didn’t know if that was due to its construction, or the way it had been worn in, mostly by one single person.

Jesus Christ, he needed to get a grip.

He tried, over the next hour, to decide what he was going to say to Clint, how he would word it, and if, in fact, he even wanted to accept the invitation at all. He went in circles on that, recognizing the pros and cons, and even acknowledging the uneven balance between them. There were so many professional pros, and one big personal con, and Phil simply could not decide which should take precedence.

He ended up distracting himself with paperwork instead, to the point that he was absorbed when the obligatory knock came on his door. The fact that the door was already opening meant that it was definitely Barton, and Phil called out a “Come in,” just as he always did. He did not, however, remain seated as he usually did, instead standing and buttoning his jacket as Clint fully entered the room.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Clint eyed Phil somewhat suspiciously, a look that grew in intensity as Phil came out from behind his desk.

“I did. Have a seat, Agent Barton.” Phil gestured not towards one of the chairs in front of his desk, but to the couch. He turned one of the chairs around for himself, placing it closer to the couch and keeping his hands on the back of it for a moment as Clint sat. Phil didn’t say anything right away, for once in his life at a loss for words. He’d been so sure of this conversation, so sure that it was the right course of action, but now that it was upon him, he found he didn’t even know how to begin.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

Phil forced himself to exhale, then finally released the chair and stepped around it. “Yes, Barton.” Then he reconsidered. This was a personal conversation, mostly, not professional. “Clint,” he amended as he finally unbuttoned his suit jacket again and sat.

The name switch wasn’t lost on Clint, who immediately narrowed his gaze. “Sir?”

Phil sighed. They’d never been on a first name basis, except in times of great stress, and even then it had always been Phil using Clint’s first name in a bid to keep him alive. Phil, to Clint, always had been, and probably always would be, “Coulson,” “sir,” or “boss.” He’d do well to remember that, especially if he actually said yes to the proposed living arrangement.

Phil arranged himself in the chair with his body language as psychologically soothing as he could make it. He made certain to leave his arms open, his posture a little informal, the best approximation of relaxed he could manage. He wanted to have this discussion with as little power imbalance as possible. It was why he hadn’t stayed in his chair, why he had taken a visitor’s seat rather than perching on the edge of his desk. He was not Clint’s boss for this. He was just Phil.

Allowing himself one small comfort, he tugged on his cuffs, and finally spoke. “I wanted to discuss the proposal extended to me today. There’s a facet to the offer that you don’t know about, and it might affect — it probably _will_ affect, as a matter of fact — whether or not you support the offer at all. And I cannot accept without every team member’s explicit approval.”

Clint frowned. “Is this something you’ll be discussing with each of us then?”

“No, Clint. Just you.”

The frown deepened, but it was thoughtful, not angry. “I gotta tell you, sir, you saying my name like that? Is weirding me out. Are you sure everything’s all right?”

Phil huffed a little, and tried a small smile. Clint knew him well enough to read the reassurance in it, and Phil didn’t even try to pretend that Hawkeye didn’t also see the uncertainty. “No one’s hurt, dying, or in any way damaged, I assure you.”

“Okay. So. What’s going on?”

Time to bite the bullet. “We’ve known each other for a long time now, professionally. And even if we’ve never been solid friends outside of work, the very nature of our jobs and the sheer number of times we’ve traveled together, well, it tends to make for an odd sort of intimacy. A quasi-friendship based on knowing each other’s eating habits, sleeping habits, not to mention extreme survival situations. It’s . . .”

“Sir? Are you trying to tell me I’m your bestie? Your BFF?” The teasing tone in Clint’s voice grated on Phil’s nerves, so much more so because Clint was so close to the truth, and yet so completely off the mark, for once in his life.

“I’m trying to tell you, Clint,” he started somewhat peevishly, until he saw the skin tighten around Clint’s eyes, saw the way the archer’s thumb tightened against the side of his index finger. Phil took a breath, and tried again. “Barton,” he corrected. The agent might be “Clint” in Phil’s own head, but if it made the man uncomfortable, Phil would curb the instinct. He’d gotten pretty good at it over the years. “I’m trying to tell you that I have, despite my best intentions, formed . . . an attachment to you.”

Clint was silent. His thumb was no longer pressed tight, but Phil was pretty sure that was out of sheer shock.

He cleared his throat. “I understand that this must be a surprise, and I want you to know that I have no intention of pursuing it, as it were. I’m well aware of your orientation, as well as your preferences, and I’m not asking anything of you. I just thought it best that you know, especially given the proposal on the table.”

Clint said nothing for another long moment. Eventually he seemed to rouse himself from his stupor, the line of his mouth still turned down. “You’re telling me you have a crush on me?”

“I’m telling you that I love you,” Phil corrected, unwilling to allow any misunderstandings. In for a penny, and all that.

“I . . .” Clint straightened his spine, clasping his hands over his knees. “I didn’t even know you were gay.”

“Bisexual, actually. It isn’t something that’s widely known. Not that I’m ashamed, mind you. Just that I’m . . .”

“Private,” Clint supplied, and Phil nodded.

“Yes.” When Clint said nothing else, Phil cleared his throat and forged on. “As I said, I expect nothing of you. This is something I’ve been aware of for a while, and I’ve always done my utmost to be professional and will, of course, continue to do so. But if this in any way makes you uncomfortable, or causes you to doubt my judgement or abilities—”

“What? Hey, no,” Clint interrupted. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

Phil allowed himself a lip twitch at that, and even felt his shoulders relax minutely. “Not that kind, certainly,” he said, and his muscles loosened even more when Clint — Barton — finally smiled a little. “Seriously, Barton. I understand the strain something like this can put on a friendship, and the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable or unable to relax in your own home. I can take the liaison position without moving in. Or, if you’d rather someone else in the post all together, I can make some recommendations, put together a list—”

“What did I just say?” Barton asked, his voice tight. “I trust you, sir. You’re not . . . I trust you.”

“Thank you.” Phil adjusted his cuffs again, taking a moment to let that settle, and to choose his next words. “Nevertheless, I want you to take some time to consider your options. I promise you my feelings will not be hurt if you decide you’d rather I not move in, or if you’d prefer someone else take the position. I would never hold such a decision against you, professionally or personally, nor would I inform the others that you asked me to turn them down. This conversation will stay confidential, at least on my end. I’d appreciate it if you’d extend me the same courtesy, though if you feel the need to talk to someone about it, I would understand. Natasha suspects, I’m sure. If you wanted to discuss this with her, that would be okay.”

“You know, it would be really nice if maybe you didn’t just assume I was going to be a total douche about all this. I mean, yeah, I might talk to Nat, because it’s Nat, you know? But if you didn’t want me to talk to anyone — including her — I wouldn’t. I won’t. And if — _if_ — I decide I don’t want you to move in, which would, in fact, be kind of a douche move, I wouldn’t hide behind your skirt while you turned the team down. Not unless that’s what you want. If it’d be easier for you, to just tell them it was your decision.” He leaned forward again, one elbow on his knee and pointing at himself with his other hand. “But, yeah. Not a douche.”

“Sorry,” Phil offered. “I know you’re not. If I thought you were, well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we? I suppose it’s a form of bracing myself. Over the course of my life, the number of times I’ve had, uh, surprise attacks of . . . douche behavior, well. You can hardly blame me.”

“Yeah.” Clint clasped his hands together between his knees. “That must suck.”

“It can.” Phil certainly wasn’t about to go into it, to tell Clint all the times he’d been let down by people he’d trusted, friends and colleagues, and the few members of family he had left. “So. You’ll take a few days?”

Clint nodded. “If that’s what you want. I don’t think I’ll change my mind, but I get that it’s important to you. So yeah, I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat again. “Do you have any questions for me? Or concerns?”

“No,” Barton said, then immediately changed his mind. “Well, yes. You said this is something you’ve known for a while. Can I ask . . .”

“How long?” Phil filled in gently, touching the edges of his sleeves again. “About six years.”

Barton physically pulled back at that, sitting up straight once more, and Phil tried not to let his dismay show on his face. “You . . . Jesus, sir.”

“Yes, well.”

Clint seemed to get himself under control, and Phil wondered just how much concentration the sniper was putting into his obvious muscle relaxation. Whatever the amount, Phil appreciated the effort. “Okay. So. Okay. Six years. I thought— I mean, I would have thought that at some point you’d have, uh . . .”

“Gotten over it?”

“Yeah.”

Phil shifted in his seat. “Maybe some people are capable of that. Most people, probably. I imagine there are plenty of men and women who can acknowledge feelings, accept that they are not reciprocated, or, even if they once were, that the relationship is now over, and move on. The world would be a very lonely and depressing place if people weren’t able to do that. I do not appear to be one of those people.”

“But—”

“Barton,” Phil cut in, unable to stand hearing a rational argument for healing, for moving on. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. “I assure you I have not been idle, pining in despair. I have dated others in an effort to move on. I have reminded myself over and over why it can’t happen and, even if it could, why it _shouldn’t_. I stayed away for three years, flying all over the world and immersing myself in work in an effort to get over it. To get over you. If it hasn’t happened by now, I think it’s safe to say it’s not going to. This is my life. I’m not going to revel in this particular circumstance, certainly, but I’m not about to let it cripple me either. It’s one aspect of an otherwise fulfilling existence. Please respect me enough to recognize that I know my own heart, and what I’m capable of, and what I’m not.”

“Yeah, of course,” Clint said quickly. “I mean, yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Not ‘sir,’ Clint. Not when we’re discussing this.”

Clint blew out a noisy breath. “Okay. Look,” he said, and Phil recognized the avoidance of the name issue for what it was. “I’m okay with this. I mean, it’s surprising, sure. But you said yourself you don’t expect me to do anything, right? You know I’m straight. And if you haven’t let it affect your job in six years, I imagine we’ll be fine going forward. There’s nothing about you that’s changed. I still trust you. So my only other question is: what about you?”

“Excuse me?”

“This whole discussion has been about me. About what I want. What about you? I mean, you’ve been dealing with this for six years and, okay, you said distance doesn’t matter. And being the handler for our group of superpowered freaks would be quite the career coup, so I get why you don’t want to turn that down. But living in the tower? That would be okay for you? That wouldn’t be, I don’t know. Awkward or difficult or, like, too much?”

Phil looked away. He knew it was a tell Clint would easily read, but he didn’t have it in him to hide it. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I honestly haven’t decided what to do yet.”

“Okay,” Clint said, gentle and easy-going. “But maybe you should give what you want equal weight. I’ll think about my side of it, I promise I will, but only if you do the same. And we’ll both agree to respect the other’s decisions and concerns, or any limits or rules that need to be put into place. Sound fair?”

“Yes,” Phil agreed with a nod, meeting Clint’s eyes again. “Yes, that sounds good. Thank you, Barton.”

“Don’t mention it, s— Uh. Coulson.” Clint offered a tentative smile, and Phil found himself smiling back.

He wouldn’t realize it until much later, but he had, in fact, already made his decision. How could he not, in the face of this man, and the sliver of hope he’d never been able to quash completely?

 

_________

 

Phil moved into the tower. He didn’t have many large possessions, having lived on the Bus for so long and his previous apartment having been let go during his “death.” It didn’t take long for him to settle in, at least physically. Mentally, however, was another story.

He had a hard time adjusting to the idea that it was okay to let these people see him in a relaxed state. That he didn’t have to be on the job, in a suit and tie, twenty-four hours a day. That they in any way wanted him around, wanted him to come to group activities such as team meals and movie nights, and the occasional Mario Kart battle. Consequently, he spent much of his time in his own apartment (which was absolutely amazing; he’d thanked Pepper and had exchanged sarcasm and head nods with Stark) only venturing out for official business, workout and sparring sessions, and when called to the communal floor by the others.

Natasha was the most frequent visitor, the others correctly assuming that she’d be able to get him out of his self-imposed isolation. Captain Rogers stopped by sometimes, making Phil grateful he’d chosen to keep only a few key pieces of his collection, and that he displayed them in the privacy of his bedroom and study. Stark had even stopped in once, to look over the final results of his money, Pepper’s purchases, and Phil’s modest additions to the decor.

But Clint had yet to darken Phil’s doorway. Phil didn’t know if that was due to a respect for Phil’s privacy, a need to adjust to the new information that had been handed to him, or utter avoidance. Phil wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Coulson,” Stark cried one day when Phil had wandered up to the communal kitchen in search of the good coffee. “Just in time for an impromptu brunch. Steve’s on eggs and Barton’s on pancakes. Natasha’s got drinks, because she can’t be bothered to help more than that.”

“And you’re doing what, exactly, Stark?” Natasha asked.

“I paid for the ingredients. And your rent. Which I am happy to do,” he added quickly off her look, “in exchange for you not killing me in my sleep. Really, it’s an honor.”

Phil let his lips quirk up for just a second, but it was a second in which Clint turned from his place at the counter, and caught him. He offered a smile of his own in return, and Phil nodded in acknowledgment. Clint’s smile widened, and he turned back to his task, flipping a pancake with a little whistle.

And just like that, things were fine. Phil slowly came to accept that his presence was not only expected for meals and movies and Wii battles, but it was genuinely _wanted_. These people liked him. Clint and Natasha, sure, they were easy. A known quantity. Tony pretended not to care either way, but so did Phil in regards to Tony, so that was fair. Pepper just shook her head at them and made it a point to make Phil feel welcome. Captain Rogers was polite and inclusive, always, and Phil did his absolute best to rein in his inner geek in thanks. Dr. Banner quietly made room for Phil every time, and Thor boisterously greeted him every time he walked into a room. Phil slowly let his guard down, started wearing sweaters and jeans and his glasses in the evenings and on the weekends. He’d get his coffee and breakfast upstairs more often than not, and do his share of the clean up after meals, and even treated Thor to a proper smack down on Wii Boxing. He and Clint were fine, their friendship solidifying through time and contact, and if Phil still craved more, well, that was all on him.

“Agent Coulson,” JARVIS announced one evening, after Phil had returned to his apartment from a dinner meeting with Nick, “Agent Barton is at your door.”

Phil looked up from his computer, blinking away the reports and requisition forms he’d been staring at, as well as his mild surprise. Not only was this Clint’s first visit to Phil’s apartment, but Phil also knew that Clint, Stark, and Captain Rogers were scheduled to attend a charity event in just thirty minutes. “Let him in please, JARVIS, and tell him I’ll be out in a moment.”

“Very good, Agent Coulson.”

Phil finished reading two more paragraphs, then made his way out to his living room. Clint stood by the couch, looking uncertain and beautiful, dressed in a grey suit and white shirt, every stitch tailored to perfection. Phil’s mouth went a little dry. He’d seen Clint in suits over the years — always for undercover work — but never one as nice or as well-fitted as this one.

“Barton,” he managed to say, and was pleased his voice didn’t hold the rasp he’d feared. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to intrude, sir,” Clint said, shoving his hands in his pockets and immediately taking them out again. Phil wondered if someone had instructed him not to do that, in those clothes. “But the tie Tony gave me got a little . . . ruined. Nothing I have is nice enough for this suit and I thought maybe you’d have something I could borrow?”

Phil raised an eyebrow at Clint’s hesitation, curious as to what could have possibly happened to the man’s tie. He didn’t ask, however. He knew well enough the kind of trouble Clint could get into over the simplest things. “You aren’t intruding,” he said mildly, forcing his brain to function. “And I’m sure I have something that would work. Do you have a color scheme preference?”

Clint shrugged. “I don’t think Tony will let me get away with purple, so. Not really? Whatever you think will go best.”

Phil allowed himself a small smile. “I don’t think I have a purple tie to lend you. But I’m sure I can come up with something appropriate. I’ll be back in a minute, make yourself at home.” He turned to head to his bedroom, already running through his tie selection in his mind. Anything to not think about how that suit clung to Clint’s chest and shoulders, and what it must look like from behind.

But when he returned to the living room, two ties in hand, he learned that his imagination hadn’t even begun to do the outfit justice. Clint was standing in front of Phil’s shelves, looking over Phil’s library of books and DVDs, examining the titles, and Phil’s right foot bumped against his left foot at the sight of Clint’s backside in those amazing clothes.

Clint, ever aware, turned, and Phil knew he’d been caught. His gaze hadn’t been anywhere but Clint’s ass, and it must have been obvious, especially when he forced himself to look up, and he knew he’d done it way too fast, and way too guiltily. He moved forward though, determined to ignore it, and approached Clint, holding both ties up to the suit. “This one,” he decided, offering up the tie that was just a few shades lighter than the dark fabric Clint wore.

“Thanks,” Clint said after a fraction of a pause, taking the tie and looking everywhere but at Phil. “Tony would have killed me if I showed up to this thing underdressed.”

Phil forced himself to step back, putting distance between them as Clint worked the strip of cloth under his collar. Clint most certainly knew how to tie a tie; Phil shouldn’t be wanting to do it for him anyway. He moved to his coffee table, straightening the (unclassified) files there in an effort to keep his hands to himself.

“I can’t believe you still have that.”

Phil looked up, questioning, to find Clint turned back to the bookcase, his eyes on the top shelf where Phil kept a few pictures and knickknacks. Mementos. The archer reached up and put a finger to the item in question, accidentally knocking it over.

“Shit.” He scrambled to upright the clothespin doll, then had to catch the silver frame that housed Phil’s parent’s wedding picture, when his knuckles brushed against that. “Sorry, sir.”

“It’s fine,” Phil assured him. Clint, while sometimes awkward, had never been much of a klutz. Had Phil’s obvious appreciation thrown him so badly? He joined Clint at the shelves, rearranging things to his satisfaction, carefully propping the homemade Captain America figurine against the clock he kept there. The old-fashioned clothespin had been painted blue, mostly, with lopsided red “boots,” and white blob in the chest area that may have been a star in someone’s imagination. A white “A” was on the “head” of the doll, covering what should have been the captain’s eyes. In short it was amateurish, horribly inaccurate, and rather ugly.

Phil loved it.

“It was a gag gift, you know,” Clint said quietly, and Phil spent an extra few seconds making sure the doll was properly balanced. “Something for you to laugh over and then throw away.”

“I know.”

“I got it at a swap meet. It wasn’t even for sale, that’s how bad it was. The guy just gave it to me.”

Phil stepped away from the shelves and looked Clint in the eyes. “I know.”

Clint licked his lips and looked a bit lost. “You were supposed to throw it away.”

“I didn’t.”

Clint shoved his fists in his pockets, opened his mouth, closed it, and took his hands out again. “I should go,” he eventually managed.

“Okay.” Phil shifted his stance, trying for loose and relaxed. “You don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah.” Clint rocked on his feet, licked his lips again, said, “Thanks for the tie. And, you know. Sorry, si— Sorry,” and left.

Phil released a loud breath into the suddenly still air, then went to put the extra tie away.

 

_________

 

“I’m just saying, it doesn’t seem quite right.”

“Oh, don’t slut shame him, Rogers. Not all of us are repressed nonagenarians.”

“I wasn’t calling him a slut, Tony! Geez. I was just saying that she was clearly, uh. What do you call it?”

“Star fucking?”

Phil hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure this was a conversation he wanted to overhear. Any move he made now might be noticed, however, and retreating would only look suspicious.

“Look, Cap,” came a low, familiar voice, and Phil _really_ didn’t want to hear it now. “Everyone was safe, legal, and consenting. Her motivations are her business, just as my motivations are mine. We were both on the same page that it was a one-time only offer, and no one got hurt, no emotions were played with, and we both had a good time. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Well, no. When you put it that way . . .”

“Good.” The sound of boots hitting the floor got Phil moving, and he knew he didn’t have time to retreat. Facing up to it would be his only option. He’d be better off going in there as if he’d only just arrived.

So he continued forward, his bland, pleasant expression solidly in place. Clint was allowed to sleep with whomever he wanted. Phil had no right to be hurt. None at all. “Good morning,” he said, admittedly more to Captain Rogers and Stark.

“Hey, Coulson. Coffee’s fresh.”

Sometimes, in his deepest of hearts, Phil loved Tony. Every once and a while, when their priorities matched up, they made a glorious pair. “Thank you.”

Clint was at the sink, water running, and he didn’t turn to look at Phil. “I have your tie, Coulson,” he said, scrubbing a bowl with singular dedication. “I meant to bring it, but I forgot. I can stop by later?”

Phil shook his head and poured himself some coffee. The last thing either of them needed was a repeat of the previous evening. “I’ll be at HQ all day. Just leave it in my office.”

“Will do, boss.”

Phil didn’t sigh, then took his caffeine back to his own apartment. He could just have toast.

Things only got worse from there. Clint didn’t come to the next movie night, and when Steve asked where he was, Bruce replied with a succinct, “Date.”

Phil very carefully handed Jane one bowl of popcorn, and gave the other to Natasha, who offered him a small smile and patted the seat next to her. He sat and she shifted as the cushions moved. If their shoulders brushed a little now and then, neither of them mentioned it. Neither of them bothered to move either.

It seemed like Clint was avoiding him. It was never anything as obvious as him leaving the room when Phil entered it, but Clint attended fewer team meals now, and he seemed to have plans during movie night more often than not. _If_ Phil happened to see him in the gym or on the range, Clint made it very clear with his body language that he was not available to spar or shoot competitively. (Phil maybe took his aggression out on his targets in those moments, deadly accurate with his weapons and ruthless with his sparring partners. He actually almost managed to take Steve down once, when Clint had passed by him in the doorway, avoiding eye contact and mumbling his excuses.)

Phil, in turn, missed a few communal breakfasts, claimed a headache during one of the movie nights he knew Clint would be in attendance, and holed himself up in his office when he didn’t have an excuse to go to headquarters. In short, it was miserable, constricting, and everything he’d hoped to avoid by talking to Clint before moving in.

 

_________

 

The Eiffel Tower was safe. Paris was (mostly) intact. Except for some minor injuries, all the Avengers were hale and hearty. Some were currently a little _too_ hale. Tony had arranged for the hotel bar to be closed to the public, and the team was celebrating their success with boisterous enthusiasm and, for some, a little too much alcohol.

All Phil wanted to do was finish his report and go to bed. (And hopefully not dream about the dive Clint had taken near the end, literally leaping from the observation deck of the iron tourist attraction in order to make a crucial shot. No one had caught him until he’d been twelve feet from the ground, when Hulk had bounded in to the rescue. Phil had never been so scared in his life.) But he could not — would not — leave them to their own devices. He knew Bruce and Steve would probably keep them in line, Natasha too, even while she imbibed. But he didn’t trust Tony for a second; too much money, an adrenaline high, and copious amounts of alcohol were not a good combination for anyone, let alone Tony Stark. Without Pepper there to ride herd, Phil felt it was his duty to supervise. The last thing he needed was some bad press about the Avengers destroying an historic Parisian hotel.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t Tony who was out of control. That honor belonged to Clint, who didn’t often drink to excess. The circumstances had to align just right: he had to feel safe, be with people he trusted, and have something on his mind, something he didn’t want to think about.

Phil was pretty sure he knew exactly what Clint was avoiding, though it was some consolation to think that Phil was still considered trustworthy. But his asset continued to give him a wide berth, staying on the other side of the bar from the quiet booth Phil had appropriated with his tablet and his electronic paperwork. He kept an eye on the entry points, always looking out for his team — his friends — and tried to get lost in the rhythm of the mundane, checking boxes and filling in details.

“I know you’re generally considered to be the most boring man on the planet, Coulson, but the idea of an after battle celebration is to, you know, celebrate.”

Phil raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up from his report. “I have work to do, Stark. No rest for the weary.”

A glass was set on the table near his hand, and the aroma of Phil’s favorite scotch finally made him look up. The tumbler held Phil’s preferred amount of ice and had a twist of lemon peel balanced on its rim. Surprised by the perfection of the offering, Phil shifted his gaze to Tony, who was sliding into the other side of the booth. “One drink won’t do anything. Live a little, Agent. If anyone needs it tonight, I’d say it’s you.”

Phil couldn’t argue with the sentiment, though he didn’t like the implication of it coming from Tony. “I’d say some of you are celebrating more than enough for the rest of us,” he said with a brief glance to where Natasha had Clint in an affectionate headlock. At least Thor had refrained from breaking any glasses or bottles. So far.

“Yeah,” Tony said, though his eyes didn’t follow Phil’s gaze. “He scared us all, you know.”

Phil let that hang in the air for a moment. “I know.” He hadn’t been the only one affected. He knew that. He wasn’t the only one who cared about Clint. He picked up the drink and took a sip, savoring the single malt as was intended. “Thank you.”

Tony bobbed his head in acknowledgment, and for once kept his mouth shut.

Containing a sigh, Phil took another sip, then put the scotch down to pick up his tablet once more.

“Pepper’s worried about you.”

“Please tell her I’m fine,” he said without looking up, “but that I appreciate her concern.”

“We don’t see as much of you anymore. Which, given that we live in the same building, is saying something.”

“Stark, you spend most of your days and nights in your workshop. I don’t think you have room to talk.”

“I’m _working_.”

“So am I.”

“No, you’re _avoiding_. Which isn’t like you. I always figured you for a straight shooter. Look ‘em in the eye and all that.”

He _had_ , was the thing. He had looked Clint straight in the eyes, had laid all his cards on the table, and things had been fine. And then he’d allowed himself to look elsewhere, just for a moment, and had ruined everything. But he couldn’t say that to Stark. So he said nothing.

“Drink, Coulson,” Tony commanded, sliding out of his seat. “You’re about to need it.”

That caught his attention, and he looked up to see Tony walking away, and Clint approaching, his gait unsteady but his eyes locked on Phil. Taking Tony’s advice, Phil picked up his scotch and helped himself to several fortifying sips. He locked the screen on his StarkPad, and turned to face Clint.

 _Look ‘em in the eye_.

Clint surprised him by maneuvering into the booth, causing Phil to scramble sideways to make room. He made sure to take his drink with him. Clint himself had a full, tall glass, something blue and probably wicked, given the state of his breath. Which Phil could smell as Clint breathed heavily in his direction, saying nothing.

“Something I can do for you, Barton?”

Clint blinked hazily, and his gaze suddenly sharpened, zeroing in on Phil’s own. “You love me,” he stated baldly, his voice a little thick but not quite slurred.

Phil very carefully reined in his responses, managing a simple nod and an answer of, “I do.” He looked past Clint for a moment, but everyone else was crowded around the bar, where Tony was calling for shots and egging Thor and Natasha on, making a show of it, and keeping Steve and Bruce entertained, if fondly exasperated.

“I’ve never . . .” Clint said, and Phil snapped his eyes back, saw him bite his lip in a rare tell. “No one’s ever loved me before.”

The simple statement cracked Phil’s heart, and he felt his expression soften. “Clint.”

“Nat cares,” he continued on with drunken determination. “I know she does. And the rest of the guys. Took me a while, but I get it now. They care. But that’s not the same.”

“No,” Phil agreed. “It’s not.”

“I don’t want—” Clint stopped suddenly, his gaze going unfocused.

Phil waited, but when Clint didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, he spoke. “What don’t you want?”

Clint swayed a little in his seat, then he took a breath and looked at Phil properly again. “Don’t want you to stop.”

Phil’s breath hitched, and he didn’t know what to say.

“S’not fair,” Clint added, and Phil had to agree with that statement. Nothing about the situation was fair, to either of them. “Nat says it’s not fair. She’s right. I know she’s right. But. Sir— Coulson. Phil? Don’t stop. Please?”

His heart pounding now, Phil cleared his throat. “That’s _incredibly_ unfair, Clint.” Never mind that he wasn’t planning on stopping. That he wasn’t sure he knew how.

“I know.” Clint’s eyes slid away, and his voice was quiet. Small, somehow. “I just . . . It’s nice, knowing there’s someone out there who . . . cares. Like that.”

“But I don’t get the same,” Phil couldn’t help but point out.

Clint was quiet for a long moment, then raised his eyes again. “I could try?”

The offer was so tentative, so _broken_ , that Phil found himself stunned into silence for a moment. “No,” he said finally, his tone firm. “No, Clint. Not if that’s not what you want.”

Ragged breathing was Clint’s only response. His gaze flicked down to Phil’s mouth, and settled there for far too long. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and Phil caught himself following the motion with interest. But when Clint started to lean in, Phil forced himself to move back.

“No.” His voice was rough, quiet but steady. “Clint, no. Not like this.”

The noise Clint made just about shattered Phil. “But—”

“If you want this — _really_ want this — then we’ll talk when you’re sober. But I don’t want you being someone you’re not just to keep something you’ll always have anyway.” Phil took a breath, and laid his hand on Clint’s arm, stroking comfortingly with his thumb. “I love you. It’s not going to go away. It hasn’t been easy lately—”

“M’sorry,” Clint interrupted. “I know I’ve been horrible. I’m trying to make it better.”

“It’s okay. It’s fine. It’s an adjustment, I know. My point is that you don’t need to do anything to keep my affection. You have that. No matter what.”

“Really?”

Phil’s grip tightened. He’d never meant to break Clint, but it seemed he had. Now he had to put him back together. “Really. There is and always will be someone who loves you. So maybe you could do him a favor and stop jumping off buildings without confirmed backup?”

Clint flashed a grin that was much more inline with his normal, cheeky self. “S’my job.”

“To scare the shit out of me? Out of all of us?”

“To make the shot.”

“Not at the expense of your life. No shot is worth that.”

Clint went quiet again, then nodded. “I’ll try. Because you . . .” _Love me_.

“Yeah.” Phil squeezed his arm again, then let go. “If you still want to talk tomorrow, or the day after, or next week, you know where to find me.”

Clint nodded, and lifted a hand. He pressed his thumb to Phil’s bottom lip, eyes locked on the sight. Phil barely had time to catch his breath by the time Clint dropped his hand; then the younger man wobbled his way out of the booth and back to his team.

Phil downed the rest of his scotch.

 

_________

 

Clint didn’t come to find him the next day. He didn’t seek Phil out the day after, either, nor at any point in the next week. After a month, Phil had to admit to himself that it wasn’t going to happen. Whatever revelations Clint may have been working towards in Paris, they’d obviously been induced by alcohol, and rooted in his abusive past. They’d also been false, his needs and fears driving him to offer something he didn’t actually want.

It was high time Phil came to terms with that. The small spark of hope that had, that night, been fanned into something larger (despite Phil’s attempts to talk himself down) died completely, and he was left with something heavy and cold in his chest.

He was just starting to get used to it, was learning to work with it and around it, when Clint suddenly started showing up for movie nights again. He’d make the popcorn, even, or hand out the sodas, sometimes trying to catch Phil’s eye and sometimes intentionally looking away. He wouldn’t deliberately switch equipment in the gym when Phil entered anymore either, instead just continuing on with his routine even if it put them in close proximity. He even challenged Phil to a shooting match once, a seventeen-round clip versus seventeen arrows.

Clint won, obviously. He didn’t gloat, though, just offered a shy kind of smile that Phil honestly didn’t know what to do with. He found himself wanting to smile back, but he tamped the impulse down, trying, for once, to protect himself. Instead, he offered a curt, “Well done, Barton,” and left the range.

“Coffee, sir?” Clint asked one morning, already reaching for an extra mug.

“I can get it, thank you, Barton.”

Clint visibly hesitated, but eventually nodded and stepped away after pouring his own mugful, leaving the space clear for Phil. Who fixed his own cup, then retreated to his office, skipping breakfast entirely.

“Hey, Coulson,” Clint said, swinging his upper body into Phil’s office a couple days later. “Me, Thor, and Bruce are getting Chinese for lunch. You want in?”

Phil’s mouth hardened into a tight line, and he forced himself to breathe before looking away from his computer. He wasn’t sure what Barton was playing at, if he was genuinely just trying to blow past what had happened, or if this was some kind of effort at sympathy that Phil couldn’t help but see as pity. “No thanks.”

“C’mon, boss. You have to eat, right?”

“I’m fine, Barton. I have to get this paperwork in order for Stark’s latest prototype. SHIELD wants it in production soon, and there’s a lot of red tape to cut through with the patent office.”

Clint straightened in the doorway, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. “Coulson.”

Phil cut him off, unable to deal with whatever he was going to say. The desolate lump behind his sternum had never weighed more, and he fixed Clint with his best unimpressed look. “I have work to do. It won’t be the first time I’ve skipped a meal.”

Clint clenched his hands into fists, gave a nod, and left.

It took Phil a good three minutes to look back to his screen, and another six before he was able to focus on the task in front of him.

Almost a week later, Phil entered the communal kitchen to find Natasha at the table sipping orange juice, and Clint cracking eggs into a bowl. It was early still, and he’d honestly thought the kitchen would be empty. If he’d been expecting anyone, it would have been Steve, who was up with the dawn most mornings. He hesitated for only one heartbeat, then moved to get a mug for his coffee.

“Morning, sir,” Clint said, bending to retrieve a pan from the cupboard. Phil kept his eyes averted, concentrating on pouring out his first hit of caffeine. “Want some scrambled eggs?”

Phil shook his head and added his usual amounts of cream and sugar. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just have some cereal.”

The clatter of the pan on the stove startled him, and he looked up to find Barton glaring at him. “It’s just fucking eggs, Coulson. I’m already making them for me and Nat, it isn’t going to kill me to add a couple more to the pan.”

Phil bristled. “Barton—”

“No. Enough. I’m _trying_ , okay? It’s just breakfast, it’s not any kind of power play, it’s not fucking pity, or whatever the fuck you’re thinking. It’s just eggs. _Eggs_. So sit your ass down and have some breakfast. We’re doing this.”

When he risked a glance at Natasha, she raised a single eyebrow at him, and Phil sat. Clint was noisy as he cooked, slamming things around and scraping the spatula against the pan with extra force. Even the toaster seemed to be more violent than normal, popping loudly in the silence created by their lack of conversation.

His plate landed in front of him roughly and Clint slapped some silverware onto the table in a pile. Natasha calmly separated the knives and forks, handing Phil one of each without comment. Clint sat with a huff and they ate, silent and stiff, with only Natasha finding any amusement in the situation, her eyes flicking between them as if waiting to see who would break first.

It was Phil who finally gave in. He looked across the table at Clint, who sat with hunched shoulders and a wrinkle in his brow, who played with his fork and his eggs more than he actually ate. He looked at Clint, whom he still loved, and saw the anger for what it was: an attempt at hiding the pain and confusion. So Phil breathed deeply, consciously relaxed in his chair, and said, “Did you and Tony ever get the balance right on the snare net arrows?”

Clint’s gaze snapped up, landing on Phil’s own, and the brief flash of utter hope in the man’s eyes before he slid them away again made Phil glad he’d spoken. “Not yet,” he offered, his voice barely more than a mumble. “He’s supposed to work on them some more today, but you know how he gets.”

Phil nodded, and tried a small smile, hoping Clint would look at him. “Well. You’ll just have to show up and prod him along. I have no doubt you’ll be able to persuade him.”

Clint did look back to Phil then, and his own lips curled up just a touch. “It’s true. I can be very persuasive when I want to be. It’s called persistence.”

“Really?” Natasha asked, her voice skeptical. “I always thought it was called whining.”

“You’re a riot, Nat.”

“Not all by myself, though I have helped to incite a few in my time.”

Clint pointed his fork at her, almost a threat. “Funny girl.”

Phil couldn’t help but huff a laugh, and Clint rewarded him with a smile. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

 

_________

 

The first time it happened, Phil didn’t think anything of it. He’d offered to do the dishes after a team dinner, and Clint stayed to help. Phil started the water running, rinsing a few plates before putting them in the dishwasher. Clint, who was still clearing the table, approached with a stack of plates and silverware. He grinned at Phil, who smiled back and reached for the dishes. Clint handed them over, and their fingers brushed.

Phil put the plates in the sink, and continued on.

When Clint started humming, then quietly singing to himself, Phil grinned, refused to feel the goosebumps on his arms, and started on the pots and pans.

Clint began to pack the leftovers away. He passed by Phil on the way to the refrigerators, much closer than was necessary in the large kitchen. His arm brushed against Phil’s shoulder blade, and Phil scrubbed harder at the risotto stuck to the bottom of the pan.

Thor called for Clint from the living room, challenging him to a “mighty battle of the bowling,” and Clint went. Phil didn’t turn to watch him go, and when he finished just a few minutes later, he decided he needed to get caught up on some work in his office.

Bruce chose _American Graffiti_ for movie night a few nights later, and everyone settled in around the couches and chairs. Clint huffed, then wormed his way between Phil and Natasha, despite the fact that there was plenty of room on Natasha’s other side. “Popcorn,” Clint said succinctly when Phil glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, then reached into the bowl on Phil’s lap and grabbed a handful.

Phil said nothing. And when Clint got up for another drink before they started _The NeverEnding Story_ (Thor’s pick), bracing himself with a hand on Phil’s thigh, Phil very carefully kept his expression neutral and his gaze straight ahead. He didn’t dare risk looking in either Natasha’s or Tony’s direction.

He didn’t see Clint for two days after that. He honestly didn’t know if it was actual avoidance on the part of the younger man, or if they were both just genuinely busy. He didn’t know how to ask when, on the third day, Clint showed up in Phil’s office, threw himself onto the couch, and tore through a backlog of paperwork. Phil still hadn’t figured out a good way to phrase the question by the time Clint left with a jaunty salute and casual, “See you, boss.”

So. He’d probably just been busy then. Phil was simply reading too much into things, looking for reasons to hope. And, really, he _knew_ better.

“Coulson, good,” Natasha said as she offered Clint a hand up from the mat. “Come spar. I have to meet Pepper in forty minutes, and Clint needs the practice.”

“Hey!”

Phil hesitated for just a fraction of a second, but he knew full well they both saw it. So he stepped forward before Clint could take it personally. Even if he hadn’t been flirting with Phil, he’d obviously been trying to restore their previous equilibrium, and get them back on solid footing. It was up to Phil now to do the same. “Anything giving you trouble in particular, Barton?” he asked with a flippant smirk.

“Fuck you, sir,” Clint replied cheerfully. “I’ll have you know I’m in fine form.”

Phil bit back his response and stepped onto the mat. Natasha nodded in approval, said, “Have fun, boys,” and left.

Clint grinned and shifted his weight on the balls of his feet right away. Phil didn’t even have time to feel awkward as he suddenly worked to block fists and feet, then went on the offensive, bringing a knee into Clint’s stomach forcefully, and an elbow into his lower back.

With a grunt, Clint twisted away and dropped into a roll, smoothly getting back to his feet once he was further away from Phil. They circled each other for a bit, assessing and plotting, and when Clint feinted to the left, Phil was ready for him. They both went down, but they both bounced up again just as quickly. Clint then managed to get Phil into a headlock, which Phil escaped by flipping Clint over his shoulder.

They went back and forth for a while, Clint’s strength advantage neutralized by Phil’s gift for strategy. Eventually, though, Clint brought Phil down with a sweep of the leg and a knee to his sternum. Phil landed on his back with a _whuff_ , momentarily stunned. Clint pinned him immediately, covering Phil’s body with his own, and Phil slapped his hand to the mat twice, unwilling to stay in that position any longer than necessary.

Clint shifted against him, but otherwise didn’t move. He was warm and solid, and Phil tapped out again in an effort to keep from running his hands up Clint’s arms. He could feel Clint’s chest rising and falling, pressing down on his own with every intake of breath. Phil’s own chest was tight, the cold ball of dead hope suddenly flaring back to life as Clint licked his lips and the muscles in his arms shifted.

But instead of ducking his head and moving closer, Clint pushed up and off suddenly, scrambling to his feet. “Point to me, huh, sir?” he said, his eyes on the floor.

Phil stood slowly, trying not to let any of his conflicting emotions show in his expression. He was pretty sure his anger was evident though, especially in his voice when he spoke. “Is it a game then, Clint?”

“No!” Clint’s eyes flew to his, but just as quickly slid away again. “No, sir.”

 _Sir_. Pushing down the physical manifestation of despair in his throat, Phil nodded. He didn’t know what Clint was doing or why he was doing it, but he refused to remain in a position where it could keep happening. “Well. When you figure out what it is, you let me know. Until then . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. Asking Clint to stay away from him was a step he’d never imagined he would have to take. A step he’d never _wanted_ to take.

Clint bobbed his lowered head in agreement anyway. He must have understood the unspoken request, because he left the gym without another word.

The next day, Clint was assigned to a team on its way to Moldova. The mission was estimated to last nine weeks, according to Hill, and Clint had requested it specifically.

Phil took the file from her, signed off on the placement, and handed it back. Business as usual.

 

_________

 

Clint returned after three and a half weeks. He had two cracked ribs, two broken fingers on his right hand, one on his left, multiple lacerations all over his body, and a concussion. He’d been patched up in Odessa, flown home to New York, and was currently waiting for the doctors at HQ to release him.

He’d jumped off a building.

Phil was livid.

Granted, Clint had used a grappling arrow, but it had still been a sixteen story drop before he’d crashed through a window on the second floor. His bow had caught on the edge of the window frame — the sudden change in momentum had snapped several bones in his fingers — and he’d landed hard, crashing into a sturdy, industrial table. He’d heal, and his hands would be fine with some therapy, but that wasn’t the point.

“You promised me, Barton,” Phil said, his voice hard and stern, not quite a shout. “No more jumping off buildings.”

“I had a line. It was fine. I’m fine.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Clint! You _promised_.”

“You can’t hold me to that,” Clint retorted, his own voice rising in volume. “I was drunk. You can’t hold me to _anything_ I said or did that night. Anyway,” Clint added, apparently not having noticed how still Phil had become, “what the hell are you yelling at me for? I did my damn job, Coulson. It’s in the report.”

“I don’t care about the report,” Phil countered, so angry and hurt he could hardly string the words together. “I care that you’re injured. Again.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not my problem, is it?” Clint asked, his tone snide. “Any other agent and that’s all you’d fucking care about. The report and the job. You want to talk promises, boss? How about your promise to keep things professional? That certain ‘ _attachments_ ’ wouldn’t interfere with work? What about when you said you didn’t expect anything from me? Because I gotta tell you, that’s not how it feels sometimes.”

Setting aside the implication that Phil only cared about mission objectives, and not about the agents attempting to achieve them (which stung, because Clint knew better than that. Knew _Phil_ better than that), Phil snapped back. “Maybe I wouldn’t expect things if you didn’t _do_ things sometimes. If you’d keep your goddamn hands to yourself!”

“So file a fucking complaint, _sir_. Sexual harassment. Just so we’re on the same page. So there’s paperwork and an official file, and it’s all _professional_. Better yet, get the fuck over it. Six years? Isn’t that a little pathetic?”

With a deep breath of shock, Phil reeled back, his spine stiffening. _But you said_ , he wanted to shout. _You_ asked _me not to stop!_ Instead he stood there, breathing heavily and desperately trying to keep himself together. Barton wasn’t looking at him, was staring at the muted television just behind him, but Phil couldn’t look anywhere else. This was it, he knew. This was the end of their friendship, the end of their partnership.

He never should have said a word. He should have stayed out of Stark Tower and away from the Avengers. At least then he’d still have his friend.

“You’re right,” he said at length, working hard to keep his voice steady and calm. “I’m not being professional. Thank you for the reminder, Barton. Believe me, it won’t be a problem again.” He turned on his heel and left, careful to keep his back straight and chin parallel to the ground, careful not to slam the door in a display of emotion.

“Agent Coulson?”

Phil wasn’t surprised to see Steve and Natasha approaching from the elevators, and he wasn’t surprised that Natasha seemed to instantly know something was wrong. “Is he okay?” she asked as Phil met them halfway.

“He’s fine. In rare form, actually. He’ll need therapy on his hands, but everything else just needs time.” He could feel each deep, deliberate breath he took, striving for poise. He switched his focus to Steve and, in his best professional voice, said, “Captain, I’m glad you’re here. As team leader, I should tell you that I plan to file a request for a new position with Director Fury today. I don’t anticipate it being denied, but if it is, I’ll hand in my resignation instead.”

“Your resig— Why?”

“I believe it isn’t in the best interest of the team, nor some of its members, for me to remain on as liaison. Naturally, I will give you time to find someone new for the position. Three weeks, I think, should be adequate. I’ll compile a list of agents with the proper clearance level and skill set, and put my personal recommendations at the top. You’ll want to interview them, of course, and perhaps run through a training scenario with a few before making a final decision.”

“Coulson,” Natasha said, but he didn’t pause.

“I’ll have the list for you by the end of business today, as well as my official notice of resignation as liaison to the Avengers. I understand that this means I’ll have to vacate the apartment afforded me by the position, but rest assured I’ll be out of the tower by the final day of my post.”

“Phil,” Steve tried, and Phil shook his head.

“Believe me, Captain, this is for the best. For everyone.” He maneuvered past them, heading for the safety of the elevators. Steve said his name again, but he ignored it, as well as Natasha’s quiet voice telling Steve to see to Clint. When footsteps hurried in his direction, quiet but deliberate, he lengthened his stride in an effort to escape.

“Coulson. What did he do?”

He whirled to face Natasha. “Besides leap off a building?” he asked, trying for caustic and knowing he’d fallen short.

“He always leaps off buildings. What did he do to _you_?”

“Leave it, Natasha.”

“ _Phil_.” It was perhaps the second time in eight years she’d addressed him by his first name, and it immediately set him on edge.

“It isn’t your concern, Agent Romanoff,” he snapped.

She was too good to react to his tone. She merely looked him over for a long moment, then nodded. “It isn’t,” she agreed coolly. “Though as your friend I feel compelled to remind you that Clint often lashes out when he’s hurt or confused.”

“Then maybe he should stop _jumping_ off _buildings_.”

The look she turned on him was as disdainful as any he’d ever seen. “Don’t feign stupidity, Coulson. It doesn’t suit you.” With that, she walked away, heading back towards Clint’s temporary room.

Phil managed to pull himself together enough to make it to the elevators with his usual calm facade. Once he’d pressed the button and the doors closed, however, he gave in to a moment of weakness and leaned forward against the wall, his forearm braced above the panel of buttons, his head resting heavily on his clenched fist. He allowed himself a few deep breaths in that position, then straightened, smoothing out his suit jacket and tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves. He had work to do.

 

_________

 

Phil was exhausted. And starving. It was nearly two in the morning, and he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He simply had too much to do to worry about things like sleeping and eating. The official handover to Agent Mangat of the liaison position was due to happen in three days, and Phil was running on empty. Between finding a new apartment, packing up his suite at the tower, and preparing all involved parties for the shift, he was completely spent.

His own kitchen being devoid of any real food (and most of the pans to cook it in), he was in the shared kitchen, having been assured by JARVIS that certain people were not up and about, roaming the communal spaces. He’d thought about taking the leftovers he’d heated back to his apartment, but then he’d just have to bring the dishes back, so instead he was trying to relax, sitting with his pasta and beer and going over his handwritten notes in the protocol book. He had every intention of leaving it behind for Agent Mangat, who would surely find it useful.

He only realized his mistake in not asking JARVIS to monitor movement on the floor when footsteps sounded through the living area, and then Clint stepped into the kitchen. The younger man looked tired, as if he hadn’t been able to sleep. Given that he was in pajama pants and a t-shirt, and was sporting a pretty ridiculous bed-head, Phil was pretty sure the assessment was accurate.

Phil stood, even as Clint hesitated. They eyed each other warily for a moment, and then Phil broke the stalemate by moving to the sink. He dumped the rest of his food in the trash, appetite suddenly gone, and rinsed his plate. He fully expected Clint to leave, as the archer had been doing every time they’d been within sight of each other these past few weeks. The noise of the water would surely cover his retreat, and Phil spent a few extra seconds with the scrub brush to give Clint time to do so.

But when he turned around, Clint was still in the same spot, just inside the kitchen, playing with the drawstring on his pants. Phil slowly put his plate and silverware in the dishwasher, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is there something you want, Barton?”

Clint visibly took a breath, and his eyes darted up to meet Phil’s before sliding away again. “You stopped, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. The non-bandaged fingers of his left hand fiddled with the drawstring, then moved to catch the waistband low on his hip, snapping it up and into place. Phil conscientiously kept his eyes on Clint’s face. “I made you stop.”

Phil was _done_. He’d had enough of the back and forth, the bullshit, the fucking tug of war Barton was playing with his heart. “You can’t have it both ways,” he snarled. “You don’t get to tell me to stop, and then be disappointed when I do. You don’t get to flirt with me one minute, and push me away the next — you don’t get to call me _pathetic_ — and then hope that nothing’s changed. You certainly don’t get to dictate my emotions. Not anymore.”

Clint’s lips pressed together and he gave a sort of half nod. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. That I’m not worth . . .” He trailed off with a shrug, and Phil’s arms dropped back down to his sides, his chest tightening around a breath that couldn’t escape.

And fucking fuck _fuck_. There he went, losing so much of his anger just because Clint’s issues decided to come out to play. Rather than address them directly, however, Phil admitted, “I haven’t stopped, Clint. You pushed me away, so I’m going. I’m giving you what you want and trying to protect myself at the same time. This was a mistake. Living here, telling you how I felt . . . It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done any of it, and I’m sorry.”

“You—” Clint bit his lip and shook his head more vehemently, clearly trying to get some point across. He didn’t say anything else, but he moved, quickly striding across the kitchen to stand in front of Phil. He hesitated a moment, his tongue darting out to run over his bottom lip, and Phil tensed at the gesture.

“Clint, don’t. Please don’t do this again. I’m trying to—”

Phil didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Clint kissed him. His mouth was warm and perfect, insistent against Phil’s own. He found himself opening up to it, letting Clint coax his lips apart, letting him press him back against the counter, letting him align their bodies until Phil had no choice but to bring his hands up to grip at Clint’s biceps for balance.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Clint said eventually, his lips still brushing Phil’s. “Don’t be sorry. It was brave and it was . . .” Clint kissed him again, and this time his tongue swept along Phil’s bottom lip, instead of his own. “Don’t be sorry.”

Phil groaned. He _heard_ himself groan, and he knew it was too much and too fast, too willfully ignorant. He was blatantly ignoring all his doubts, all the questions he had about what Clint really wanted, what Clint was doing. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. In this moment, with Clint tasting him and touching him and crowding him, Phil did not care about motives at all.

His hands slid up to Clint’s shoulders, then over and down to his back, exploring the hard muscles hidden beneath skin and cotton. Clint’s own hands were on the counter behind Phil, causing Clint to lean in, push in close, and then he shifted his stance and lifted one hand to Phil’s lower back, encouraging Phil to arch forward, and Phil gasped into Clint’s mouth at the sudden sensation of a hard, full cock pressing against his own.

Clint’s hips rocked while Phil simply kept his pressed forward, spurred on by the hand that had slipped from his back to his ass. Phil felt dizzy, in the best possible way, and he tore his mouth away from Clint’s just to get some oxygen into his lungs. He figured he might as well use the break to his advantage, and his fingers scrabbled at the cloth underneath them, bunching the fabric up in desperation. Clint seemed to get the hint, and pulled away just long enough to strip the t-shirt up and off, clumsy with his bandaged fingers. Then he surged forward again, latching his lips onto Phil’s neck and dropping the shirt onto the floor at their feet.

“Clint.” There was so much warm skin, and Phil couldn’t keep his hands from wandering. From shoulders to arms to ribs to the back again, eventually he settled one hand just below Clint’s neck, and the other at the base of his spine, not daring to go lower but still feeling the rhythm of Clint’s hips. “Is this . . .”

“Happening?” Clint suggested, even though Phil himself wasn’t sure what he’d been meaning to say. “Yes.”

“In Stark’s kitchen,” he couldn’t help but point out, though it lacked his usual dry tone what with the hitched breath and noticeable rasp.

“S’our kitchen too,” Clint protested, and that was so beyond the point that Phil had to laugh.

That seemed to get Clint’s attention, because he kissed Phil yet again, biting down on Phil’s lower lip only to soothe it with his tongue a moment later. “More,” Phil breathed between kisses, and Clint responded by taking his hand off the counter and putting it under Phil’s thigh, lifting, supporting with his palm, urging Phil to wrap his leg around Clint. His hand was large and warm through Phil’s sweats, steady and firm despite the broken fingers.

“C’mon. C’mon, sir.”

“Not s—”

“Phil,” Clint amended. “C’mon, Phil.”

Phil wanted to lick the taste of his name from Clint’s mouth, but his body had other ideas. He shuddered and gasped and flew apart, Clint’s name tripping over his lips.

When he could think again, when he came down, he realized he was gripping Clint much too tightly, his fingers digging into skin and muscle. Clint was quiet against him, still, no longer rocking, every muscle tense, coiled and awaiting use.

“Don’t run,” Phil said, and hoped it didn’t edge towards pleading. “Clint. Don’t run away.”

“M’not.” His voice was slurred, and muffled in the skin of Phil’s neck. “Waiting.”

“For what?”

“You.”

Phil kept his right hand just above Clint’s ass, and moved his left up into his hair, stroking. “What do you want me to do?”

Clint lifted his head and kissed Phil, dirty and deep and groaning with it. His hips began to thrust once more, pushing forward again and again, rhythm lost now, and he let Phil’s leg go in favor of hauling him in even closer. “Want you to watch. See how real this is. M’not faking it. Not humoring you or indulging you. Not giving you a pity fuck. I want this. Want you. I just—”

Phil twisted his hand in Clint’s hair and _pulled_ , bringing Clint’s head back, baring his throat. He put his lips to thin skin, he kissed and licked and sucked, and then he scraped his teeth over Clint’s pulse point. Clint grunted and stuttered over a breath, and Phil felt moisture and heat spread against his hip.

After a minute or two of heavy breathing and residual body twitches, Clint started to pull away. Phil let him move a few inches, but that was all. “No running,” he whispered.

Clint inhaled sharply, and then collapsed into Phil, wrapping his arms around him and holding on. “No running,” he agreed.

 

_________

 

Phil cut open the last box, carefully unwrapped all his picture frames, and diligently placed them along the top shelf of his bookcase. His mother’s antique clock was next, holding the place of honor in the middle.

“Here,” Clint said, handing him the item that Phil hadn’t packed, that had been awaiting transport in Phil’s briefcase rather than risk damage. In the end, none of the boxes had gone anywhere, rendering the gesture moot, but Phil had still saved the knickknack for last.

Phil kissed Clint in thanks, took the Captain America clothespin doll, and leaned it up against the clock, situating it perfectly. It was still ugly and inaccurate, and held no inherent value.

Now more than ever, it was Phil’s favorite possession.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you all know, there _may_ be a remix of this fic at some point in the future. _Maybe_. It would be interesting to explore Clint's side of the story. :)
> 
> And, one more time, the amazing cover art is linked here!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sweet Child of Mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555067) by [raiining](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining)
  * [Moving In, Moving On (Cover Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3814207) by [Insidious Inkstains (sidneybelveire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneybelveire/pseuds/Insidious%20Inkstains)




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